Fierce Pride (8 page)

“Did you see this?” Santos bellowed, waving a paper.

Maggie leaned in the door. “This is a hospital, and not everyone feels as well as you do this morning.”

Santos sneered at the reminder and repeated his question in a hoarse whisper. “Rafael saw the mirror and so did the security guards on the shady side of the ring. How can they call me clumsy?”

Juan waved away his concern. “Forget them. We all know you’re too skilled to fall over your own feet. What did the doctor say? How long will your recovery be?”

“I’m not certain. He hasn’t been in yet today.”

Libby backed away from the doorway. “He’s going to be out for months,” she whispered.

Maggie understood. “Martinez won’t earn any money if Santos can’t fight.”

“Then he’ll pressure him to fight before his knee is fully healed, and it could end his career.”

“I don’t believe anyone can pressure Santos.”

“Would you like to get coffee?” Libby asked. “I’d rather not stand out here in the hall while he talks to Juan.”

“Fine, let’s go.” As soon as they were seated in the cafeteria on the first floor, Maggie pulled a notebook from her purse. “Let’s concentrate on the wedding for a minute. I have my dress, and Santos recommended a florist. We found a minister through the consulate and have all the paperwork ready, but when it comes to writing vows, nothing I’ve come up with is any good.”

It was the last thing Libby wanted to do. She added more cream to her cup. “You’re a much better writer than I am, so I doubt I can help. Don’t you have some favorite poetry?”

“Not really, and Rafael won’t tell me what he’s written.”

“Then ask the minister to perform his usual ceremony. No one is going to give you a low grade if you don’t contribute something original.”

“The minister is a young woman, and I’m sure she knows ceremonies by the dozen, but I want to say something heartfelt. Maybe an idea will come to me, but it has to be soon. Do you suppose Santos will be able to stand by Saturday? I don’t want to have the wedding without him.”

Libby knew she could count on Santos to stall if she asked him, but so far she’d been favorably impressed by Rafael, although she couldn’t discount his prison record. It didn’t seem real to her, though. “I wouldn’t worry about Santos. Rafael and Dad can help him down to the shore, and he can sit in one of the patio chairs.”

“Good idea. I just hope nothing else goes wrong.” She pulled her sleeves over her scars.

Libby reached for her hand. “I like Rafael, and he seems to be able to handle whatever comes along.”

“Yes, but he shouldn’t have to. This should be a happy time, not a damn roller-coaster ride.”

“Wait until Patricia gets here. She’ll cheer up everyone.”

Maggie sighed unhappily. “She’s a whole different kind of trouble.”

“Be grateful for the change,” Libby teased, but she knew exactly what Patricia would think of Santos and her stomach did a painful flip-flop.

When they returned to Santos’s room, Juan Martinez had gone and Rafael soon joined them. He brushed Maggie’s cheek with a light kiss and moved to the foot of Santos’s bed. He looked grim. “The police doubt any crime has been committed. Instead, they suggest a woman applied makeup or lipstick, looked up to watch you and didn’t realize her mirror had caught the sun.”

Santos responded with a string of most uncomplimentary words for Catalonia’s
Mossos d’E’squadra’s
investigative prowess. Libby vowed right then to learn Spanish or Catalan, whatever he was speaking so she could follow all the really good parts of the men’s conversation. “May I assume that’s the equivalent of bullshit?”

Santos felt too sore to laugh. “It was a more eloquent version of bullshit, but yes, that’s a fair translation.”

Rafael shrugged. “I’ve such little respect for the authorities, I walked out of the station rather than risk being arrested for aggressively prodding them with the truth.”

“So we’ll have to find the culprit ourselves?” Libby asked. She pulled the list of women’s names from her purse. “On the off chance it wasn’t one of the protesters, we do have some suspects. You’ve dated a lot of women, Santos. What if one of them wanted you dead?”

He gazed up at the ceiling and swore under his breath. “I’m single, and I like women. I’ll not apologize for it.”

“You needn’t,” Libby replied. “Ann Santillan was in a row near us, so she didn’t make the list. What about Rosalba Valdez?”

“Where did you get her name?” Santos asked, startled by the question.

“Tabloids have archives,” Maggie offered.

“That’s scarcely a reliable source,” Santos complained.

“Nevertheless, what about Rosalba?” Rafael asked.

Santos rubbed his hands over his face. “The last I heard, she was living in Paris. We agreed to part company so she shouldn’t be out to kill me, or she would have done it sooner.”

Libby checked off her name. “Claudia Garcia?”

“I dated her before Rosalba. She’s the type to throw temperamental fits, but I’ve not heard a word from her in a couple of years.”

Libby crossed off her name. “What about Francesca Muñoz?”

“Give me the list,” Santos said. He took it from Libby and scanned it quickly. “I know a man who can ask questions discreetly. I’ll hire him to find out where these women were yesterday afternoon.”

“Would he know any of the protesters?” Rafael inquired.

“He might. I’ll have him work that angle too, but I don’t feel well enough to spend any more time on a tabloid’s questionable list of my exes.”

“I’m sorry if we’ve tired you.” Maggie moved toward the door.

“Just a minute,” Rafael urged. “It doesn’t have to be a woman. A man could hide a mirror in a jacket pocket. How many men would like to force you to retire?”

“Among the matadors working now? Quite a few, probably, and every one would have a brother or friend who’d volunteer to blind me on a sunny afternoon.”

“Gambling debts?” Libby asked.

“No, I work too hard for my money to risk it gambling.”

“Maybe there are people who just don’t like you,” Rafael posed.

Maggie took his arm. “Didn’t you hear him? He needs to rest.”

“Do you suppose you should have a guard?” Libby asked.

“Why? To keep out women putting on lipstick?” Santos snorted.

“Call Manuel to come get you and tour the city,” Rafael told Maggie. “I’ll wait here and see if we can convince Santos’s doctor to release him today.”

Santos caught his meaning and nodded. “I’ll ask. Kiss me good-bye, Libby. I still need more luck.”

“Wait a minute. What did Mr. Martinez say about your fan mail? Have there been any threats?”

“I forgot to ask him.”

While Libby was embarrassed she’d spent more time kissing him than her sister and Rafael might suspect, she leaned over the bed to kiss him good-bye. He didn’t raise a hand to touch her, so it was only a whisper-light exchange, but she still felt a glorious electric sizzle. She wondered if he charmed every woman he met and thought he must without making more than the slightest effort. Just like his father.

She stepped back. “A lot more women belong on that list, don’t they?”

“You expect me to admit it?”

Libby walked out the door without answering but paused to question Maggie once they were down the hall. “Was your father as charming?”

“He was even more so. The man was magic.”

“Then our mother never had a chance.”

“She would have been too sweet and innocent to realize what was happening,” Maggie agreed. “Let’s hope meeting Santos doesn’t bring back sad memories for her.”

“We’ll keep her busy with the wedding,” Libby offered, but she had no such easy solution for herself.

Rafael looked down the hall to make certain Maggie and Libby had taken the elevator. “I don’t want to frighten them, but this was no careless accident. Whoever held the mirror focused it directly on you. You’ll be safer at home.”

“Do you always expect the worst?”

Rafael went to the window and glanced down on the street below. “I’ve learned to. They weren’t trying to kill me, and I’ve no great affection for you, but you’re Maggie’s brother, and she doesn’t need more grief.”

“None of us do. I’ll check out without the surgeon’s approval if I have to, but I do want to speak with him first.”

“While we’re waiting for him, why don’t you tell me who has a reason to kill you, and we’ll stop him before he succeeds. The girls don’t need to be in on it.”

Santos studied Libby’s list. “I don’t know, but one of these women might. I’ll call Javier, the detective I know, as soon as I get home.”

Rafael turned toward him. “Call him now.”

Javier Cazares reached the hospital within the hour. He was a small man with a narrow face and gold-rimmed glasses. He wore his graying hair slicked back, and in a suit and tie, he could easily be mistaken for a physician on the hospital’s staff.

Santos introduced him to Rafael. “Someone tried to kill me yesterday. Obviously they failed, and I don’t want to give them a second chance. It could have been one of these women.” He handed Javier the list. He’d added a couple more names after Libby had left.

“The mirror report is true?” the detective asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

“Yes,” Rafael answered. “I saw it and think it’s more likely someone protesting the bullfights is responsible.”

“May I sit?”

“Of course,” Santos said.

The detective took a visitor’s chair and pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. He copied the women’s names with a silver pen. “Do you have addresses, anything to identify these women from the hundreds with similar names?”

“Yes, at home. I’ll get them to you this afternoon.”

“Good. The protesters have been cited often enough for their leaders’ names to be readily available. I’ll pursue them as well.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve never investigated a murder attempt involving a mirror. It’s a clever weapon but relies upon cooperation from the sun for execution.”

Santos winced. “I wish you hadn’t used that word.”

The detective rose and pocketed his notebook. “Forgive me. I’ll begin with the protesters. Send me the addresses of your lady friends as soon as you’re able.”

“I will.”

“I wish you a swift recovery.” He walked out with a quick, determined step, as though confident he would soon identify the culprit.

Rafael leaned against the foot of the bed. “Just asking questions may frighten off the man or woman who did this, but it’s going to be impossible to prove who used the mirror unless a credible witness comes forward to identify them.”

“I’d thought of that, but I have to do something. I can’t just limp around for several months and hope not to be the target of another murder attempt. Do you suppose the arena security will watch the stands more closely during the next
corrida
?”

“I’ll see they do.”

Santos nodded. For a Gypsy orphan, Rafael spoke with a commanding authority and would undoubtedly be obeyed. “I appreciate your help, even if it’s for Maggie’s benefit.”

Rafael responded with a sly grin. “We’ll be family, Santos. Someday you may want to help me. Did your detective discover anything interesting about me you didn’t already know?”

Caught, Santos couldn’t deny it. “No, but he may be more useful this time.”

Rafael returned to the window. “There is that hope.” But it was a small one.

Chapter Four

Patricia skipped to catch up with her father. “I can’t wait to meet Maggie’s matador. She was always the serious, sensible one. What could have happened to her?”

Linda was afraid she knew and hushed her youngest daughter. “Don’t worry. If we don’t like Rafael, your father will promptly convince Maggie to end their engagement.”

Peter Gunderson looked at his wife askance. “Magdalena is your daughter. You give it a try first.”

“Oh my God,” Patricia whispered, and her parents turned to see Maggie rushing toward them, her delighted smile wide, but their attention was immediately riveted on her handsome escort. Rafael smiled, but, dressed in his usual black attire, his height and muscular build spoke far louder than his pleasant expression.

Linda hadn’t expected such an imposing young man as a prospective son-in-law. Hiding her dismay, she drew Maggie into an enveloping hug. Catching herself, she reluctantly stood back to let Peter and Patricia greet her.

“We haven’t seen her since Christmas,” Peter told Rafael.

Rafael extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. Will you need help with your luggage? Our chauffeur is waiting with the car.”

“Wait until you see it,” Maggie interjected. “It’s a Hispano-Suiza.”

“Really, what year?” Peter asked, clearly impressed.

“It’s a 1934 Type 68 saloon,” Rafael replied.

“Even without a fancy suit of lights, you ought to be promoting tourism for Spain,” Patricia responded with a saucy grin.